Back On Track
by Heiress7Muzzy
Summary: 'It's only when Captain Rogers loses his grip and falls the three thousand feet from the burning helicarrier they're on that the Soldier starts to remember.' And maybe by then it's too late.


A/N: For Amber, because you're awesome and you share your birthday with Seb Stan. I might also have been itching to write some Stucky. I hope you like it (:

It's only when Captain Rogers loses his grip and falls the three thousand feet from the burning helicarrier they're on that the Soldier starts to remember.

"_Steve!_" the name's ripped from his throat, desperate and plaintive, as he envisions Captain Rogers' lifeless form sinking to the bottom of the Potomac, and he sucks in sharp breath because for some reason just the thought of that _hurts_, and fear claws at his heart the longer the captain doesn't resurface.

He doesn't remember much, but what he remembers is enough. Captain Rog – _Steve_ – is important, or was, to Bucky, at least. And while all he's got to go on at the moment is an image of a smaller, frailer Steve, wheezing in the throes of an asthma attack, the Soldier distinctly remembers feeling the urge to protect him, remembers thinking he's got to be what stands between Steve (fragile, breakable Steve) and the horrors of the world.

And that's enough for him to know what he needs to do now.

He doesn't hesitate; he lets go of the carrier and plummets down, _down_. The explosion and debris raining down behind him is new, but as he falls, it's not the carnage of the helicarriers he sees. There's a snowy mountain pass and a train, and his outstretched hand doesn't even brush Steve's as he falls, the shrill whistle of the wind and the echo of Steve's anguished cry in his ears.

The impact against the surface of the Potomac knocks the breath from his lungs and the pain in his chest informs him of a few possibly cracked ribs. Shoving the pain to the back of his mind to be dealt with later (something he's developed an unfortunate talent for), the Soldier pulls himself towards where he saw Steve go down.

Relief floods his chest when his metal hand encounters sodden fabric. He tightens his grip and begins the slow process of dragging the unconscious – _but still breathing, thank God_ – Captain America towards the shore. His progress is somewhat hindered since he's only got one functioning arm left (thank you, Steve), but the pain from his broken arm is easily ignored when Steve is alive and (relatively) well.

He deposits the captain on the bank gently, can't resist running his metal hand through the short blond hair, and only turns to leave when Steve splutters and coughs up lungfuls of water. He hasn't gone five steps when Steve's voice, hoarse but determined, stops him in his tracks.

"Buck, don't – don't leave," Steve's voice is strained and the Soldier doesn't need to turn around to know Steve, the stubborn fool, is trying to pull himself to his feet, trying to go after his retreating form.

The Soldier takes a moment to appreciate the utter stupidity of what he's about to do, before he sighs and is back at Steve's side in an instant, propping him up so he doesn't aggravate his injuries further and kill himself after all the trouble the Soldier's gone through to ensure his continued survival.

Steve's whole body tenses like he's expecting this to be an attack. The Soldier stays where he is, metal arm wound around Steve's chest, as he lowers him back to sit on the embankment, and it feels like a victory when Steve gradually relaxes and leans back against his chest.

They sit in silence for awhile, the water lapping at the soles of their boots, and the Soldier thinks abruptly of the beach on Coney Island, his arm around a skinny Steve's shoulders as they perch on a rock, their feet only just skimming along the tops of the waves. He thinks of Steve leaning in close to say over the distant sound of crashing waves, 'I'm forgiving you for the Cyclone because this is great.'

He's jolted back into the present when Steve, no-longer-skinny Steve, asks, desperate and hopeful, "You remember?"

The Soldier hesitates. (He _never_ hesitates; it's not in his nature. Or, well, not in his programming, anyway.) "I – some of it. Enough to know I –" he cuts himself off, flushing at what he'd been about to say. Because everything he's feeling for Steve – and yes, he's feeling a lot of things for Steve – aren't his own feelings, his own emotions.

They're Bucky's memories, Bucky's feelings. It's Bucky who wanted to lean in, close the distance between them and take Steve's breath away in a way asthma can't. It's Bucky who, as he fell from that train, apologized over and over in his head to Steve, for not being able to have his back, for leaving him behind. Bucky's the one who worked an extra shift at the docks whenever Steve got sick, the one who saved up for weeks so he could scrape together enough money to take Steve to the pictures, the one who stole medication they were too broke to afford when Steve had pneumonia, and later lied to Steve about it. It takes the Soldier less than a second to come to the conclusion that he hates himself. Dozens of people have died at his hands, and countless more have had their lives ruined because of him.

No matter what Steve insists, he's not Bucky. Of all the memories he can access right now, Steve's in every single one of them. If Bucky Barnes' life was defined by being Steve Rogers' friend and sidekick, then the Soldier isn't worthy of being him, of wearing the face of the man who died in the Alps. Steve is a paragon of righteousness and all things good, and the Soldier is everything he's not. He thinks of the boy in Budapest – he couldn't have been older than twelve – he had been ordered to kill simply because he'd been in the way. He feels the disgust and shame curling low in his gut, knows he's unworthy of being in Steve Rogers' company.

"I –" he pauses, clears his throat because his voice is being distinctly un-cooperative, "I'm not him." He rushes on before Steve can interrupt, speaking to the ground, "I have his memories and I feel what he felt, but he and I – we're different. I need you to realize that."

A hand grips his shoulder (his flesh one) and he looks up into Steve's open, earnest gaze. "Ya think I don't realize that, pal?" he drawls, letting his Brooklyn accent colour his words, and flashes the Soldier a lazy grin, just like when the two of them sat on the fire escape of their cramped apartment, sharing between them the cheapest booze money could buy, talking about the future and how things were going to get better.

The Soldier frowns, opens his mouth to tell Steve he's trying to have a serious conversation with him, but Steve keeps going, the humour falling from his eyes and the accent fading back into non-existence. "Of course you're not him. How could you be, after everything H.Y.D.R.A. did?" The _to you_ hangs in the air, unsaid. "For what it's worth, I think you're still the same, at least, where it matters. You're just –"

"– broken," the Soldier mutters, looking away because Steve's eyes are full of understanding and compassion and forgiveness and he doesn't deserve _any_ of his kindness. "Evil. A murderer. Take your pick."

"I was gonna say 'stronger'," Steve says softly, and the Soldier lets out a breath that sounds more like a choked sob than anything else. His vision blurs and the next thing he knows, Steve's arms are around him and as he blinks the moisture from his eyes and shakily returns the embrace with his metal arm, he finally feels like he can breathe again.

Steve holds him until his breathing evens out, and every breath he takes doesn't sound like it's being punched out of him. The Soldier is the one who pulls back first, arm still looped around the back of Steve's neck.

"I've killed – I've killed children," he says on a shaky exhale, "Killing people is the only thing I've done in seventy years and pretty much the only thing I'm good at."

Steve's brow furrows, but the Soldier sees a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Is that a threat, then? Should I be worried?"

The Soldier growls in frustration and shoves Steve (carefully) so he's sprawled on his back and he's crouched on his knees above him. "What I'm tryna say, you _punk_, is that I'm completely fucked up and a threat you should neutralize because I'm a heartless murderer but I look at you and it makes me wanna try –" the Soldier drops his forehead to rest against Steve's chest, against his heartbeat, "– Stevie, _you_ make me wish I was a better man. A good one. For you."

Steve doesn't say anything for a long time, entirely too long. The Soldier closes his eyes, doesn't bother lifting his head from Steve's chest because he's gone and done it now, hasn't he, gone and fucked it all up. He listens to Steve's tripping pulse and braces himself for the inevitable rejection that shouldn't hurt as much as it already does. He can feel his throat closing up around the words Bucky had held back for so long, and he realizes too late that maybe Bucky and the Soldier aren't quite so different after all – how can they be, when they have this in common? When Steven fucking Rogers was and somehow still is the most important thing in the world to the both of them?

"Bucky," Steve breathes, and he can't help glancing up because Steve's voice is dazed and reverent, and he's looking at Bucky like there's a fucking halo around his head (or maybe he's just concussed, it's hard to tell). He only realizes he's got his head tilted to the side and is habitually checking Steve's eyes for the signs when the captain snorts and shoves at his metal bicep playfully.

"'m fine, Buck, don't have a concussion," he says, _insists_, and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly when Bucky continues squinting at him. "Seriously. Serum, remember?" He makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses his whole body.

Bucky huffs, but relents and rolls so he's lying on his back, next to Steve, the back of his metal hand brushing against the back of Steve's. He's pretty sure if his bionic arm had nerve endings they'd be alight right about now, that he'd be suppressing a shiver at the thrill Steve's touch sends through him. As it is, he only registers the slight pressure Steve's hand brings, but it's enough to make him long to reach out and grasp it with his own.

When Steve's the one who turns his palm up and laces their hands together, flesh and metal intermingling, Bucky starts and jerks his head round to look at Steve so suddenly he almost gets whiplash. "What –"

Steve kisses him then, soft and sweet, just a quick press of lips on lips. Bucky barely has time to react before he's moving away again, panic and worry written on his face, which is gradually flushing a dull red, "Christ, Bucky, I'm sor –"

Bucky doesn't give him the chance to finish. Before he knows it he's got a hand (his real one) fisted in the neck of Steve's uniform and is using his grip to haul Steve into another kiss, urgent and demanding, licking his way past the seam of Steve's lips and into his mouth, and Steve's surging forward, kissing him back with enough force to bruise and Bucky thanks whatever gods are listening that Pierce could never be bothered to give him a haircut when Steve tangles his free hand in his too-long hair and _tugs_. Bucky groans and all but melts, boneless, against his side. Steve smirks at that and Bucky can feel it, feel the curve of his smile against his lips as Steve does it again, uses his grip on Bucky's hair to angle his head so Steve can mouth his way down his jaw and suck a bruise high on his neck.

When Steve finally pulls back, it's to admire his handiwork. There's a smirk playing around his lips (they're kiss-swollen and _oh,_ he did that) and he looks entirely too pleased with himself. Bucky stares at Steve staring at him and feels a dull flush climbing up the back of his neck.

"I think it might be there to stay," Steve says conversationally, as though he hasn't just blown Bucky's mind. And his world. He hurriedly steers his mind away from that train of thought before it conjures up any more images of Steve blowing things.

"Good," he replies carelessly, all too conscious of the fact that their hands are still entwined. If nothing else, the mark on his neck will be proof, a visual reminder of what they've done when Steve comes to his senses and starts regretting it.

"You are," Steve abruptly says, eyes wide and earnest with his heart on his sleeve and _Jesus Christ_, how had Bucky ever refused this man anything before? "A good man, I mean."

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. "No," he says carefully, "I'm not. You don't know half the things I did."

There's a pause. "No," Steve's voice is careful, measured, "But I know what you didn't do. You didn't complete your mission. You didn't let me die. And those things you say you did? That wasn't you, Buck, that was all H.Y.D.R.A. Tell me, when have you ever seen a _heartless murderer_ torn up with guilt over what he's done?"

Something pricks at his eyelids and Bucky realizes he's crying again. "Doesn't change the fact they were my hands that did it, though," he mutters harshly, then laughs bitterly. "Y'know, back when we were kids, I'd always judge things based on what I thought you woulda done. If I thought you wouldn't steal from the grocer's just cause we were broke, I wouldn'ta done it. You were my moral compass, Stevie. And if I remember correctly what kinda man you are, there ain't no way in hell you'd approve of what I've done."

There are hands cradling his cheek before he's even done speaking, gentle and warm against his skin, thumbs smoothing away the tears, and he's holding him like he's something fragile, like Steve thinks he's going to break. Bucky wants to reassure him he can't break something that's already broken.

Something in his expression must show, because Steve lets his hands fall away, leaving Bucky feeling oddly bereft. He opens his eyes, and can't help wondering what Steve sees when he looks at him, because most people, when they look at him nowadays, look at him with hatred or fear, maybe both. Steve… Steve looks at him with awe, with wonder, with hope shining out of his eyes and Bucky swears a silent oath to himself that he's not going to let Steve Rogers down. Not again.

People like Steve deserve better.

"It doesn't matter what it is you've done," Steve says firmly, in the same tone he'd used to give orders back when he was Bucky's CO, the one that brooked no argument, "You might've pulled the trigger, but you weren't the one who fixated on the targets. You were brainwashed for seventy years, Bucky. For chrissakes, what do I have to say to get it through that thick skull of yours, jerk?"

"_Punk_," Bucky shoots back reflexively, the shape of the word familiar and welcoming on his tongue. "I should've tried harder to fight the conditioning," he says, regret a solid weight on his chest, "'s what you woulda done. You wouldn't have given in so easily."

"Listen to me –" Steve starts and when Bucky stares obstinately at the leaves littering the riverbank, he slips a hand around the back of Bucky's neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape and tugging. It wrings an involuntary groan from Bucky's throat as his eyes focus on Steve's once more. "Bucky, you're the strongest man I know, that I've ever known. If you couldn't fight the conditioning, I wouldn't have been able to either. Just –" his grip tightens on Bucky's hair until it's erring on the side of painful "– I know what it feels like to hate yourself, and I'm gonna love you enough for the both of us, right til' the end of the line, you hear me?"

Bucky's sure once upon a time, before Zola, before H.Y.D.R.A., he would've laughed at how Steve's waxing poetic, would've laughed, ruffled Steve's hair and made an appropriately sappy comment. He's not sure why he finds himself unable to do anything else now but surge forward and crush Steve to his body, burying his face into the crook between Steve's neck and shoulder and holding, _clinging_ on to him like his life depends on it.

And maybe it does. Maybe it always has: his life depending on Steve's, his world revolving around him, from the orphanage to Brooklyn to the war to that train. The longer they stay, wrapped around each other, so close Bucky can feel the rhythmic thumping of Steve's heart, the more easily he breathes.

He smiles crookedly, "I hear ya, Stevie."

Because he's been adrift for the past seventy years, lost in a maelstrom of programming and re-programming, of brief fits of wakefulness before he's pulled under into cryosleep again, and here, right here in Steve's embrace, he finally feels like he's coming home.


End file.
